. 


THE  WIND  IN  THE  CORN 


THE  WIND  IN  THE  CORN 

AND 

OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

EDITH  FRANKLIN  WYATT 


D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1917 


COPYRIGHT,  IQI7,  BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT,  IQOI,  IQ03,  1909,  IQII,  1915,  BY   THE    MCCLURE  PUBLICATIONS, 

COPYRIGHT,   1904,   1907,  BY  HARPER  &  BROS. 

COPYRIGHT,   1905,   1906,    1909,  BY  CHARLES  SCRIBNKR's   SONS 

COPYRIGHT,  1905,  1906,  1907,  1908,  1909,  1910,  1912,  1913,   1914,  BY  P    F. 

COLLIER  &  SON 

COPYRIGHT,  1907,  BY  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  1909,   1913,   BY  THE  RIDGWAY  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  I9I2,  BY  THE  METROPOLITAN  MAGAZINE  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY  THE  WOMAN'S  WORLD  MAGAZINE  COMPANY,  INC. 
COPYRIGHT,  1912,  BY  MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 

COPYRIGHT,  Igi2,  IQI3,  BY  THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING   COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  1914,  BY  THE  ATLANTIC  MONTHLY  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  1914,  1915,  1917,  BY  HARRIET  MONROE 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  Of  AMERICA 


TO 

PHYLLIS  WYATT  BROWN 

THIS  BOOK  IS  AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 


371641 


Of  the  poems  in  this  volume,  "Winter  Wheat," 
"Huron,"  and  "A  Twilight  Tale/'  are  here  pub 
lished  for  the  first  time.  For  permission  to  re 
print  the  other  lyrics,  the  writer  thanks  the 
editors  of  Scribner's  Monthly,  Harper's  Monthly, 
the  Atlantic  Monthly,  Poetry,  a  Magazine  of  Ver:e, 
Collier's  Weekly,  the  Saturday  Evening  Post, 
McClure  's  Magazine,  the  Woman 's  World,  Every 
body's  Magazine,  Contemporary  Verse,  and  the 
Forum. 


PREFACE 

IN  the  last  three  years  the  farthest  and  stillest 
fields  of  our  national  life  have  been  stirred  by 
the  breath  of  the  world- war. 

Now  that  our  American  army  is  in  France  we 
have  been  thinking  with  especial  gravity  of  what 
our  country  has  to  send  overseas,  both  from  her 
broad-soaring  grain-lands  and  from  her  spiritual 
resources. 

It  is  in  an  attempt  to  express  both  something 
of  the  dream  of  democracy — her  vision  of  the 
pursuit  of  happiness — and  some  of  the  overland 
ways  of  the  living  presence  of  our  Country  that 
this  book  has  been  written.  Not  because  I  am 
so  presumptuous  as  to  think  my  songs  are  ade 
quate  to  their  great  theme,  but  because  I  hope  that 
a  part  at  least  of  the  pleasure  I  found  in  that  at 
tempt  may  speak  in  them,  I  have  been  glad  to 
vii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  WIND  IN  THE  CORN I 

THE  CUP  OF  LIFE 4 

ONE  FOR  ALL  AND  ALL  FOR  ONE       ....  6 

To  A  RIVER  GOD 10 

NIAGARA 15 

EVERY  DAY 18 

WINTER  WHEAT 20 

ON  THE  GREAT  PLATEAU 26 

FRIENDSHIP 30 

AN  OCTOBER  EVENING 31 

THE  BREATH  OF  LIFE 33 

THE  SHEPHERD  DAY 35 

SUMMER  HAIL 38 

AN  UNKNOWN  COUNTRY 42 

SYMPATHY 47 

OVERLAND 50 

HESPERUS 54 

A  WAYSIDE  FIRE 56 

A  TWILIGHT  TALE 59 

APRIL  WEATHER 64 

To  F.  W 65 

NOVEMBER  IN  THE  CITY 68 

AN  APRIL  QUEST 73 

ON  THE  SHORE 76 

AN  ARIZONA  WIND 79 

xi 


Xll  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  FROST  ON  THE  PANE 82 

THE  GYPSY  ROSE 84 

To  A  CITY  SWALLOW 87 

THE  CLOVER 90 

HURON 92 

THE  AUGUST  SKY 94 

LAKE  WINDS 96 

FOREST  FIRE 97 

NIGHTFALL  IN  ARIZONA 101 

A  MIDLAND  TWILIGHT 103 

MARCH  HORSES 106 

CITY  WHISTLES 109 

A  CITY  AFTERNOON 112 

CITY  VESPERS 115 

A  CITY  EQUINOCTIAL 119 

BEHIND  THE  DAY 123 


THE  WIND  IN  THE  CORN 


THE  WIND  IN  THE  CORN 

FAR  away,  far  away,  someone  is  going,  there — 
Someone  invisible,  rider  and  horse: 

Now  a  sheaf,  now  a  leaf,  tipping  and  blowing, 

bear 
Naught  of  his  tale  to  me,  only  his  course. 

Riding   through   lowland   corn,   riding  through 

highland  corn, 

Flicking  the  furrows  from  seaboard  to  sea, 
Riding  through  shoreland,  and  river-locked  is 
land  corn, 
Traveler,  traveler,  who  can  you  be? 

Yellow  the  sundown.     The  bright-terraced  val 
ley-top 

I 


2  THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Breathes  all  in  silence:  and,  still,  down  th< 

vale, 
Far,  where  the  corn-furrows'  gold-dappling  alley 

drop 
Answers  the  traveler,  "Brief  is  my  tale." 

"Long  have  I  ridden  by  cornfield  and  moorland 

now; 

Out  of  the  bourn  of  the  morning  I  came — 
Ridden  the  fields  where  the  steeps  and  the  shore 

lands  bow 

Heaped  with  earth's  richnesses.    Want  is  m] 
name." 

Yellow  the  twilight.    The  plume-terraced  valley 

top 

Breathes  forth  its  heart  from  the  black  fra 
grant  loam. 

Traveler,  when  will  your  long,  hungry  journe) 
stop? 


THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN  3 

When    will    the    bounty    of    earth    be    your 

home? 

Tall  stands  the  corn  on  the  lowlands  and  high 
lands,  now: 

Full- fold  and  full- fold  the  bottom-lands  leap 
Seaward.    The  shorelands,  the  tassel-flocked  is 
lands'  prow, 
Wave,  and  close-serried  soar  prairie  and  steep. 

Thousand-rayed,  thousand,  the  gold-dappling  al 
leys  swing, 

Comfort  me — rock  me  to  peace  in  their  sweep : 
Some  day,  oh,  some  day,  the  horseman  will  hear 

them  sing, 
"Drop  your  rein,  traveler !  Rest  in  my  deep  1" 


THE  CUP  OF  LIFE 

OF  all  the  vintage  in  the  world 

One  single  cup  of  wine, 
One  cup  of  life,  one  cup  of  death, 

One  destiny  is  mine. 

I'd  not  give  up  that  special  cup 
My  fates  have  poured  for  me, 

For  any  other  in  all  time, 
Nor  all  eternity. 

For  in  my  time,  and  in  my  place 

No  foot  has  stood  before. 
My  taste  of  fortune  fine  or  base 

No  lips  can  know  of,  more. 

So  might  I  choose,  I  would  not  lose 
For  nectared  draughts  divine 
4 


THE     CUP     OF     LIFE  5 

This  deep-spiced  vintage  here  and  now, 
In  mine  own  place  and  time. 

Mine  be  the  strength  to  lift  it  up 

In  pride :  drink  full  and  free, 
And,  standing,  drain  the  mortal  cup 

My  fates  have  poured  for  me. 


ONE  FOR  ALL  AND  ALL  FOR  ONE 

"SKIPPER,  when  will  my  ship  come  in? 

Silver  and  gray  and  brown 
The  cloud-rack  rifts  and  the  morning  lifts 

Over  my  trading  town. 
Out  of  the  bourn  of  the  break  of  day 

Flush  with  the  morning  star, 
The  Hope  of  my  Happiness  sailed  away 

Over  the  harbor-bar." 

"Turn  back,   turn  back  to  your  trading  town, 

Nor  walk  on  the  quay  with  me. 
For  many  a  ship  of  dreams  goes  down 

That  saifa  on  the  unknown  sea 
Turn  to  work  for  your  luck,  nor  wait 

In  the  wind  and  the  misty  rime. 
For  the  only  one  who  may  stay  for  fate 

Is  myself:  and  my  name  is  Time." 


ONEFORALL  7 

"Skipper,  when  will  my  ship  come  in? 

The  whistles  of  noon-day  blow. 
The  sun  burns  high  in  the  masted  sky. 

The  tides  and  the  great  winds  flow. 
Aught  she  may  bring  me,  now,  I  need — 

Silver  or  gold  or  tin. 
The  trade  winds  blow  and  the  gulf  streams  flow. 

When  will  my  ship  come  in?" 

'When  the  light  of  the  soul  of  the  day  blew  down, 

'And  the  morning  star  throbbed  and  paled, 
Out  of  the  heart  of  your  trading  town 

A  myriad  dream  ships  sailed. 
Out  of  the  bourn  of  the  break  of  day, 

Out  to  the  open  mam, 
your  fathers'  and  sons'  ships  sail  away, 

And  never  come  back  again." 

"Skipper,  the  evening  is  clear  and  white. 
My  long  day's  work  is  done: 


8  THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

And  over  the  fort  of  the  harbor  height 

I  hark  for  the  sunset  gun. 
A  year  and  a  day  and  a  life  ago, 

Out  to  the  wind  and  the  rack, 
Our  million  desires  have  sailed  away, 

And  none  of  them  yet  come  back. 
But  if  my  ship  should  come  sailing  back 

Whatever  her  cargo  be, 
Lade  her  with  iron  and  rope  and  jack 

And  turn  her  again  to  sea. 
And  bid  her  stay  till  the  pulse  of  day 

Be  dead  and  the  stars  melt  down 
And  she  bring  all  our  ships  that  have  sailed  away, 

Back  to  our  trading  town." 

The  trade-winds  were  blowing,  the  gulf -streams 
were  flowing, 

And  yellow  the  flood-touched  sun. 
The  whole  horizon  was  sail-swept  sky, 

When  the  harbor-mouth  shook  with  the  gun : 


ONEFORALL  9 

And  gold  ships  and  silver  steered  proud  from  the 
West, 

Where  in  past  the  harbor  bar, 
The  Hope  of  his  Happiness  rode  with  the  rest, 

Flush  with  the  vesper  star. 


TO  A  RIVER  GOD 

THERE  is  a  river  flowing, 

Fast  flowing  toward  the  sea ; 

Past  bluff  and  levee  blowing, 
His  mantle  glances  free; 

Past  pine  and  corn  and  cotton-field 
His  foam-winged  sandals  flee. 

From  dock  and  dune  and  reedy  brake, 
Through  lock  and  basin  wide, 

Long-linked  lagoon  and  terraced  lake 
Drop  down  to  watch  his  pride, 

And  rivers  North  and  rivers  South 
To  speed  his  coursing  ride. 

Wheat  and  corn,  and  corn  and  wheat, 
Cotton-drift  and  cane, 
10 


TOARIVERGOD 

Serried  lances  rippling  fleet, 

Dappled  tides  of  grain, 
Dip  beside  him  where  he  goes 

Flying  to  the  main. 

By  full-sown  fields  and  fallow, 
By  furrows  green  and  bluff, 

Past  bar  and  rock-bound  shallow, 
His  torrent  washes  gruff. 

By  tamarack  and  mallow, 

Past  bottom-land  and  bluff. 

From  highland  and  from  lowland, 

Farm,  town,  and  city  see 
His  foam-winged  footsteps  going, 

His  mantle  blowing  free, 
Past  dusky  mart  and  black-spired  crown, 

Fast  flowing  to  the  sea. 

Wheat  and  corn,  and  corn  and  wheat, 
Cotton-drift  and  cane, 


THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Serried  lances  rippling  fleet, 

Dappled  tides  of  grain, 
Dip  beside  him  where  he  goes 

Speeding  to  the  main. 

His  foot  runs  on  the  ages'  bed 
Of  gullied  cave  and  rock, 

With  bison  skull  and  arrowhead 
His  yellow  waters  lock, 

Past  vanished  trails  and  tribal  dead 
His  fleecing  currents  flock. 

By  bluff  and  levee  blowing, 

By  oats  and  rye  unshorn, 
His  silver  mantle  flowing, 

Flicks  east  and  west  untorn, 
Unfurling  from  Itasca  to 

Louisiana's  horn. 

Wheat  and  corn,  and  corn  qnd  wheat, 
Cotton-drift  and  canet 


TOARIVERGOD  13 

Serried  lances  rippling  fleet, 

Dappled  tides  of  grain, 
Dip  beside  him  where  he  goes 

Rushing  to  the  main. 

What  tribute,  racing  spirit, 

What  token  will  you  take, 
Through  stain  and  desecration, 

Past  town  and  terraced  lake, 
To  distant  sea  and  nation 

From  cotton,  corn,  and  brake? 

What  tribute  are  you  bearing 

Past  plain  and  pluming  tree, 
By  bluff  and  levee  faring 

On  foam-winged  footsteps  free — 
What  beauty  for  the  hold  of  time, 

And  souls  unborn,  to  see? 

Poplar  on  the  Northern  steep, 
Cotton-drift  and  cane, 


T4         THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Wheat  and  corn,  and  corn  and  wheat, 

Rippled  tides  of  grain, 
Brake  and  bayou  ask  of  you 

Buoyed  toward  the  main. 

By  rock  and  cavern  blowing, 

Flocked  field  and  pluming  tree, 

Past  bluff  and  levee  going 

On  foam-winged  footsteps  free, 

By  rapid,  lock,  and  terraced  lake, 
Forever  to  the  sea. 


NIAGARA 

COOL  the  crystal  mist  is  falling  where  my  song  is 

calling,  calling 
Over  highland,  over  lowland,  fog-blown  bluff, 

and  bouldered  shore : 

Proud  my  snow-rapt  currents  leaping  from  Su 
perior's  green  keeping, 

Down  from  Michigan's  gray  sweeping  toward 
the  Rapids'  eddied  floor. 

Rain,  hail,  dew,  and  storm  cloud  swing  me ;  from 

the  heights  the  hollows  wring  me ; 
Filtered   clay   and   field   silt  bring  me   silent 

through  the  dark-breathed  loam, 
Down  the  thousand-terraced  highlands  till  the 
sky-land  lake  beds  wing  me — 
15 


16         THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Flying  down  and  down  in  beauty  through  the 
chasm's  flocking  foam. 

Down  from  Huron,  down  from  Erie,  though  the 

wild  duck's  wing  grow  weary, 
Tribe  and  nation  part  and  vanish  like  the  spin 
drift  haze  of  morn, 
Fresh  my  full- fold  song  is  falling  and  my  voice 

is  calling,  calling 

Down  from  far-poured  lake  and  highland  as 
I  sang  when  I  was  born. 

South,  North,  East,  and  West  untiring  speak  my 

brother  seas  in  splendor, 
Tell  their  dominant   desiring,   claimant  over 

coast  and  main. 
Mine  the  choiring  of  a  woman's  chord  immortal, 

of  surrender — 

Of  the  splendor  of  desiring,  deep  to  give  and 
give  again. 


NIAGARA  17 

Chord  of  star- fused  loam  and  silver-surgent  lake 

cloud's  generation, 
Here  I  sing  the  earth's  still  dreaming  down  my 

green-poured  currents'  length, 
Voice  of  river-rocking  valleys,  rich  heart  plains, 

and  heights'  creation, 

Clear-veiled  chord  that  locked  in  you  your 
mother's  life,  your  father's  strength. 

Cool  the  fog-flocked  mists  are  swinging.     Soar, 

my  dream ;  and  silver  winging, 
Call  my  air-hung  music  ringing,  toward  the 

crystal-buoyed  morn — 
Full-fold  music  from  the  highlands,  where  my 

splendor's  voice  is  singing. 
Fresh  from  flooded  shores  and  sky  lands  as  I 
sang  when  I  was  born. 


EVERY  DAY 

EVERY  day  fresh  bread  and  sweet 
Gladly,  thankfully  I  eat, 
Buttered  loaf  and  crumb  and  crust 
Given  me  a  child  of  dust — 
Child  of  dust  though  I  may  be 
Here  is  joy  is  meant  for  me. 

Crystal  water  every  day 
I  may  drink  upon  my  way,      * 
Fresh  as  dews  of  star-eyed  Spring 
Cool  as  airs  the  light  winds  bring — 
Child  of  dust  though  I  may  be 
Here  is  joy  is  meant  for  me. 

Every  night  the  arms  of  sleep 

Take  me  to  a  refuge  deep 
18 


EVERYDAY  19 

Some  far-off  and  silent  place 
In  the  utmost  caves  of  space- 
Child  of  dust  though  I  may  be 
Here  is  joy  is  meant  for  me. 

Though  I  still  must  strive  and  cry 
For  some  lot  more  fine  than  I, 
Some  far  crown  of  mist  or  gold, 
Here  are  gifts  of  kindly  mold — 
Gifts  to  take  on  bended  knee, 
Joy  I  know  is  meant  for  me. 


WINTER  WHEAT 

RIDING  over  height  and  prairie,  when  the  winter 

hours  grew  long, 
Once  I  heard,  afar  and  airy,  something  loose  a 

wayside  song. 

Something  sang: — "Wind  and   rain,  dance   on 

road  and  street. 
Husked  the  com.    Ground  the  grain.    Green  the 

winter  wheat, 
Singing  in  the  sleet! 
Husked  the  corn,  and  ground  the  grain.  Green 

the  winter  wheat! 

Still  are  flock  and  field  now,  over  hill  and  swale ; 
Corn  in  shock  and  bield  now ;  cricket  hushed 

and  quail. 

20 


WINTER     WHEAT  21 

Bright  alfalfa  shut  your  eyes.     Sweet  tobacco 

sleep. 
Under  stormy-pluming  skies,  humming  watch  I 

keep, 
Where  the  Youhiogheny  flows,  washing  hoarse 

and  gruff, 

Where  the  Alleghany  goes,  over  vale  and  bluff, 
All   around   the    frost-furred   stables,    sheltered 

fleece  and  horn, 
Icy-splintered  fence  and  gables,  crackling  hedge 

and  thorn. 

Overland,  overland,  field  and  pasture  sail. 
Down  the  wold  the  furrows  fold,  brown  along 

the  rail. 
Many-toned  through  Minnesota,  singing  in  the 

sleet, 
Snowy-furled  through  cold  Dakota,  wings  the 

winter  wheat. 


22          THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Fling  it,  sow  it,  East  and  West,  while  the  frost 

rides  forth! 
Oats  and  barley  sleep  and  rest !    Swing  it  South 

and  North! 
Sow  it  where  the  swallows  sing,  cane  and  cotton 

sleep ! 

Strow  it  on  the  wild-duck's  wing  up  the  North 
ern  steep! 
Husked  the  corn.    Ground  the  grain.    Green  the 

winter  wheat ! 

"Spring-time  days,  summer  ways,  verdant  leaf 
and  dew 

Thrill  with  countless-chorded  praise.  Winter 
songs  are  few. 

Winter  songs  are  few. 

Not  alone  the  storm-wind  chills — not  the  storm- 
wind  most — 

But  the  fog  along  the  hills,  creeping  damp  and 
frost. 


WINTER     WHEAT  23 

Who  shall  like  the  earth  and  listen,  tell  the  tune 
her  life-time  knows, 

Now  no  dancing  tree-tops  glisten,  now  no  crystal 
glory  blows, 

Through  her  lesser  days,  down  her  muted  ways  ? 

Let  me  strow  and  sing  it  now,  where  the  wild- 
ducks  cry, 

Swift  arise  and  answer  now,  full  and  proudly, 
77 

I,  the  winter  wheat,  singing  in  the  sleet! 

I  will  hear  her.    I  will  hearken;  past  the  fogs 

and  battling  snows 

Brfyig  through  hours  that  dim  or  darken,  what 
the  heart  of  winter  knows; 

Swinging  through  the  storm-wind's  soaring,  sing 
ing  through  the  ice-cut  gale, 

Through  the  tempests  thick,  out-pouring  over 
farthest  height  and  swale, 

Through  her  muted  days,  down  her  lesser  ways, 


24         THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

East  and  West,  North  and  South,  deeply  sing  and 

call, 
Overland  and  overland  and  in  and  through  it 


Every  dreariness  and  blast,  through  it  all  and  to 
the  last!'" 

As  I  rode  through  twilight's  portal,  while  the 

winter  hours  grew  long, 
Once  the  voice  of  love  immortal  sang  my  soul 

a  wayside  song. 
Let  my  day  in  dark  be  ended,  let  the  fates  at 

last  defeat. 
Down   the   roads   of   rapture   splendid,   I   have 

heard  the  winter  wheat. 
Fling  it,  sow  it,  East  and  West,  while  the  frost 

rides  forth  ! 
Oats  and  barley  sleep  and  rest.    Swing  it  South 

and  North! 


WINTER     WHEAT  25 

Sow  it  where  the  swallows  sing,  cane  and  cotton 
sleep ! 

Strow  it  on  the  wild-duck's  wing  up  the  North 
ern  steep! 

Husked  the  corn.  Ground  the  grain.  Green  the 
winter  wheat! 


ON  THE  GREAT  PLATEAU 

IN  the  Santa  Clara  Valley,  far  away  and  far 
away, 

Cool-breathed  waters  dip  and  dally,  linger  to 
wards  another  day, 

Far  and  far  away — far  away. 

Slow  their  floating  step  but  tireless,  terraced 
down  the  Great  Plateau. 

Towards  our  ways  of  steam  and  wireless,  silver- 
paced  the  brook-beds  go. 

Past  the  ladder-walled  Pueblos,  past  the  orch 
ards,  pear  and  quince, 

Where  the  gate-locked  rivers'  ebb  flows,  miles 
and  miles  the  valley  glints, 

Shining  backwards,  singing  downwards,  towards 

horizons  blue  and  bay : 
26 


ON     THE     GREAT     PLATEAU         27 

All  the  roofs  the  roads  ensconce  so  dream  of 

visions  far  away — 
Santa  Cruz  and  Ildefonso,  Santa  Clara,  Santa 

Fe. 
Ancient,  sacred  fears  and  faiths,  ancient,  sacred 

faiths  and  fears — 
Some   were   real,   some   were   wraiths — Indian, 

Franciscan  years, 
Built  the  Khivas,  swung  the  bells,  while  the  wind 

sang  plain  and  free 
"Turn  your  eyes  from  visioned  hells!    Look  as 

far  as  you  can  see!" 

In  the  Santa  Clara  valley  far  away  and  far  away, 
Dying  dreams  divide  and  dally,  crystal-terraced 

waters  sally — 
Linger  towards  another  day,  far  and  far  away — 

far  away. 
As  you  follow  where  you  find  them,  up  along  the 

high  Plateau, 


28  THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

In  the  hollows  left  behind  them,  Spanish  chapels 

fade  below — 
Shaded  court  and  low  corrals.     In  the  vale  the 

goatherd  browses. 

Hollyhocks   are    seneschals   by   the   little   buff- 
walled  houses. 
Over  grassy  swale  and  alley  have  you  ever  seen 

it  so — 
Up  the  Santa  Clara  Valley,  riding  on  the  Great 

Plateau  ? 
Past  the  ladder-walled  Pueblos,  past  the  orchards, 

pear  and  quince, 
Where  the  trenched  waters'  ebb  flows,  miles  and 

miles  the  valley  glints, 
Shining  backwards,  singing  downwards  towards 

horizons  blue  and  bay. 
All  the  haunts  the  bluffs  ensconce  so  breathe  of 

visions  far  away, 


ON     THE     GREAT     PLATEAU         29 

As  you  ride  near  Ildefonso,  back  again  to  Santa 

Fe. 
Pecos,  mellow  with  the  years — tall-walled  Taos 

— who  can  know 
Half  the  storied  faiths  and  fears  haunting  green 

New  Mexico? 
Only,  from  her  open  places,  down  arroyos  blue 

and  bay, 
One  wild  grace  of  many  graces  dallies  towards 

another  day, 
Where  her  yellow  tufa  crumbles,  something  stars 

and  grasses  know, 

Something  true  that  crowns  and  humbles  shim 
mers  from  the  Great  Plateau : 
Blows  where  cool-paced  waters  dally  from  the 

stillness  of  Puye, 
Down  the  Santa  Clara  Valley  through  the  world 

from  far  away — 
Far  and  far  away — far  away. 


FRIENDSHIP 

Nor  mine  are  purple  muscadine, 

Green  wine  and  precious  salve. 
I  bring  a  token  more  divine 

And  give  you  what  I  have. 
My  roof,  my  road,  my  life's  abode, 

The  winds  that  scent  my  day, 
My  fire-light's  shade,  my  fig-tree's  load 

Are  yours  upon  your  way. 
But  ask  no  foregone  beauty, 

Nor  money,  musk  nor  wine : 
Nor  call  the  name  of  duty. 

Of  stuff  far  more  divine, 
The  gladness  in  whose  name  I'll  give 

You  anything  that's  mine. 


AN  OCTOBER  EVENING 

CICADA  notes  repeating  light,  the  field-winds  full 
and  mellow, 

And  chording  crickets  keep  tonight  my  still- 
roofed  country  town. 

Her  sprinkled  turf  breathes  sweet  tonight.  Her 
even  lamps  bloom  yellow 

Along  the  leafy  street  tonight,  broad-shadowed, 
fresh  and  brown. 

A  step  comes  down  the  highway;  a  step  goes 

down  the  by-way 
From  Thursday  night  towards  Friday,  down  my 

dark-roofed  country  town — 
Walks  free  towards  far  tomorrows,  unguessed 

success  and  sorrows 
31 


32         THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Along  the  gabled  street  tonight,  all  velvet-ridged 
and  brown. 

Cicada  chords  and  crickets  keep  still  time.  Burn, 

lamps,  burn  yellow. 
Breathe,   prairie   fragrance   cool   tonight,    from 

wide-rolled  swale  and  down. 
Blow,  highland  wind.  Blow,  lowland  wind.  Rise, 

marsh-wind,  rich  and  mellow. 
I  think  my  country's  soul  tonight  walks  through 

my  country  town. 


THE  BREATH  OF  LIFE 

THE  gift  of  life  was  given  me, 
More  wonderful  than  earth  or  sea, 
Than  cloud  or  star  of  changing  skies 
Where  night  and  day  resplendent  rise- 
The  gift  of  life. 

A  thousand  colors  flash  and  glow, 
A  thousand  odors  waft  and  blow; 
Or  harsh  or  soft  or  crystal  clear, 
A  thousand  notes  sound  far  and  near— 
The  gift  of  life. 

To  work,  to  sleep,  to  work  again, 
Rejoice  and  laugh  and  suffer  pain 
Is  mine:    to  know  in  bliss  or  ruth 
The  splendor  of  the  real  truth — 
The  gift  of  life. 
33 


34          THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Although  that  time  at  last  must  come 
When  all  sweeps  past  me  blank  and  dumb 
And  I  untouched  as  shard  or  stone; 
Perhaps  forever — yet  I've  known 
The  gift  of  life. 


THE  SHEPHERD  DAY 

THE  silver-hooded  morning 

Spoke  freshly  to  my  heart 
From  some  high  misty  pasture-land 

Where  cool  leaves  blew  apart. 
I  saw  his  cloak  glance  on  the  strand 

Past  cobbled  street  and  mart. 

"I  am  the  shepherd  mormng, 

I  am  the  shepherd  day 
Come,  foot  and  soul,  and  walk  with  me 

Wherever  runs  the  way, 
By  dusty  road  and  green-cropped  lea, 

Through  weather  clear  and  gray" 

"O  fleet- foot  morning,  mock  not  me; 
Too  swift  you  speed  apace. 
35 


36         THE     WIND    IN     THE     CORN 

Drop  your  adorning  down  for  me 
And  let  me  see  your  face — 

Now  I  have  crossed  with  you  till  noon 
The  meads  and  steeps  of  space." 

"Divine  am  I,  your  master, 
The  day  of  life  you'll  live, 

Come  faster  and  come  faster  on 
And  take  the  roads  I  give." 

And  down  the  craggy  pass  I  saw 
His  mantle  fugitive. 

The  river  frogs  were  calling  "Hark!" 
And  bush  and  sward  and  mold 

Were  blue  and  stark  with  dew  and  dark 
And  fragrant  in  the  cold. 

Half  sheltered  in  a  byre  unsought 
We  found  a  wayside  fold. 

Then  backward  glanced  my  master  day, 
And  as  he  turned  apace 


THE     SHEPHERD     DAY  37 

His  hooded  mantle  dropped  away 

With  free  and  random  grace; 
And  only  when  my  guide  was  gone 

I  looked  upon  his  face. 

Far  m  a  mountain  pasture-land 

I  heard  his  footsteps  go 
Among  the  sapphire-terraced  stars, 

The  night's  wide  dark  and  snow. 
Ahead  he  dropped  my  welkin's  bars 

To  fields  I  could  not  know. 

"I  am  the  shepherd  morning, 

I  am  the  shepherd  day 
Come,  foot  and  soul,  and  walk  with  me 

Wherever  runs  the  way, 
By  rocky  road  and  green-cropped  lea, 

Through  weather  clear  and  gray" 


SUMMER  HAIL 

ONCE  the  heavens'  gabled  door 

Opened :  down  a  stabled  floor, 

Down  the  thunders,  something  galloped  far  and 

wide, 

Glancing  far  and  fleet 
Down  the  silver  street — 
And  I  knew  of  nothing,  nothing  else  beside. 

Pitty  patty  polt— 

Shoe  the  wild  colt! 

Here  a  nail!    There  a  nail! 

Pitty  patty  polt! 

Good  and  badness,  die  away. 
Strength  and  swiftness  down  the  day, 
38 


SUMMER     HAIL  39 

Dapple  happy  down  my  glancing  silver  street ! 
Oh,  the  touch  of  summer  cold  !— 
Beauty  swinging  quick  and  bold, 
Dipping,  dappling  where  the  distant  roof-tops 
meet! 

Pitty  patty  polt— 

Shoe  the  wild  colt! 

Listen,  dusty  care: 

Through  a  magic  air, 

Once  I  watched  the  way  of  perfect  splendor  ride, 

Swishing  far  and  gray, 

Buoyant  and  gay — 

And  I  knew  of  nothing,  nothing  else  beside. 

Good  and  badness,  go  your  ways, 

Vanish  far  and  fleet. 

Strength  and  swiftness  run  my  days, 

Down  my  silver  street. 


40          THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Little  care,  forevermore 
Be  you  lesser  than  before. 

Mighty  frozen  rain, 

Come!  oh,  come  again! 

Let  the  heavens'  door  be  rended 

With  the  touch  of  summer  cold — 

Dappling  hoof -beats  clatter  splendid, 

Infinitely  gay  and  bold! 

Pitty  patty  polt — 

Shoe  the  wild  colt! 

Here  a  nail  and  there  a  nail! 

Pitty  patty  polt! 

Once  the  heavens'  gabled  door 

Opened:  down  the  stabled  floor, 

Down  the  thunders,  something  galloped  wide  and 

far; 

Something  dappled  far  and  fleet, 
Glancing  down  my  silver  street, 


SUMMERHAIL  41 

And  I  saw  the  ways  of  life  just  as  they  are. 
Pitty  patty  polt. 
Shoe  the  wild  colt! 
Here  a  nail!     There  a  nail! 
Pitty  patty  polt! 


AN  UNKNOWN  COUNTRY 

I 

WHERE  do  I  go 
Down  roads  of  sleep, 
Behind  the  blue-brimmed  day? 
No  more  I  know  her  silvered  sweep 
Nor  colors  clear  nor  gray, 
Nor  women's  ways 
Nor  those  of  men, 
Nor  blame,  nor  praise. 
Where  am  I,  then? 

ii 

Oh,  fragrantly 

The  airs  of  earth  arise 

In  waking  hours  of  light, 

While  vagrantly 

42 


AN     UNKNOWN     COUNTRY          43 

Sea  symphonies 

Of  changing  sound  surprise; 

Till  for  a  space  one  goes 

Beyond  the  salt  and  snows 

And    claimant   tides    along    the   wide-stretched 

beach, 

Beyond  the  last,  faint  reach 
Cf  odor,  sight  and  sound,  far  forth — far  forth — 
Where  neither  South  nor  North 
Points  down  the  roads  unguessed, 
Where  East  is  not,  nor  West; 
At  night  down  roads  of  sleep, 
Of  dreamless  sleep, 

Past  all  the  compassed  ways  the  reason  tells 
To  unknown  citadels. 

in 

Just  as  one  turns,  and  while  day's  dusk-breathed 
blue 


44          THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

And  music,  many-dappled  merge  in  flight, 
Half  in  a  dream,  one  finds  a  tale  is  true 
That  down  one's  memory  sings,  still  and  light. 
Just  as  the  spirit  turns, 
Half-dreaming  one  discerns 
Deeply  the  tale  is  true 
That  long  ago  one  knew: 
Of  how  a  mermaid  loved  a  mortal  knight; 
And  how,  unless  she  died,  she  still  must  change, 
And  leave  his  human  ways,  and  go  alone 
At  intervals  where  seas  unfathomed  range 
Through  coral  groves  around  the  ocean's  throne, 
Where  cool-armed  mermaids  dive  through  crys 
tal  hours, 
And  braid  their  streaming  hair  with  pearls,  and 

sing 

Among  the  green  and  clear-lit  water  flowers, 
The  lucent  splendors  of  their  ocean  king. 


AN     UNKNOWN     COUNTRY         45 
IV 

Like  hers  our  ways  on  earth, 
Who,  from  our  day  of  birth, 
Would  die,  unless  we  slept — 
Must  die,  unless  for  hours, 
Beyond  our  senses'  powers, 
Down  soundless  space  we  leapt. 


Beyond  the  deepest  roll 
Of  pain's  and  rapture's  sweep, 
Where  goes  the  human  soul 
That  vanishes  in  sleep? 

VI 

Down  dreamless  paths  unguessed,   beyond  the 

senses'  powers, 
Beyond  the  breath  of  fragrance,  sound  and  light, 


46         THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

As  once  through  crystal,  unremembered  hours 

The  mermaid  dived  who  loved  a  mortal  knight, 

Far  forth — far  forth — 

Beyond  the  South  or  North, 

Past  all  the  compassed  ways  the  day  has  shown, 

To  live  divine  and  deep  at  night  down  roads  of 

sleep, 
In  citadels  unknown. 


SYMPATHY 

As  one  within  a  moated  tower, 

I  lived  my  life  alone; 
And  dreamed  not  other  granges'  dower, 

Nor  ways  unlike  mine  own. 
I  thought  I  loved.    But  all  alone 

As  one  within  a  moated  tower 
I  lived.    Nor  truly  knew 

One  other  mortal  fortune's  hour. 
As  one  within  a  moated  tower, 

One  fate  alone  I  knew. 
Who  hears  afar  the  break  of  day 

Before  the  silvered  air 
Reveals  her  hooded  presence  gray, 

And  she,  herself,  is  there? 
47 


THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

I  know  not  how,  but  now  I  see 

The  road,  the  plain,  the  pluming  tree, 
The  carter  on  the  wain. 

On  my  horizon  wakes  a  star. 
The  distant  hillsides  wrinkled   far 

Fold  many  hearts'  domain. 
On  one  the  fire-worn  forests  sweep, 

Above  a  purple  mountain-keep 
And  soar  to  domes  of  snow. 

One  heart  has  swarded  fountains  deep 
Where  water-lilies  blow : 

And  one,  a  cheerful  house  and  yard, 
With  curtains  at  the  pane, 

Board-walks  down  lawns  all  clover- 
starred, 
And  full-fold  fields  of  grain. 

As  one  within  a  moated  tower 
I  lived  my  life  alone; 

And  dreamed  not  other  granges'  dower 


SYMPATHY  49 

Nor  ways  unlike  mine  own. 

But  now  the  salt-chased  seas  uncurled 
And  mountains  trooped  with  pine 

Are  mine.    I  look  on  all  the  world 
And  all  the  world  is  mine. 


OVERLAND 

OVERLAND,  overland,  sings  the  rail, 

Riding  from  sea  to  sea. 
The  stars  sink  down  past  the  dwindled  town 

And  pale  through  the  flying  tree. 
The  daystars  sink;  and  the  morning's  brink 

Brims  through  the  cinders'  flail. 
Overland,  overland,  swings  the  sun; 

Overland  rings  the  rail. 
Cut  away,  cut  away,  curve  through  the  ridge 

Sapphire  before,  next  the  sky. 
The  cool-buoyed  river-chords  call  through  the 
bridge 

Where  the  river's  arms  wave  goodby. 
Through  the  shantied  day  on  the  right-of-way, 

By  the  roundhouse  roof,  pebbly  and  tarred, 
50 


OVERLAND  51 

Ring    your    bell,    swing    your    bell,    pace    and 
tell 

Your  tale  through  the  switch-veined  yard. 
Midland,  my  midland,  her  grain-flickered  down 

Passes,  and  dairy-town  dale — 
Prairie-town  swale,  soaring  free  and  brown — 

Overland  swings  the  rail. 
Overland,  overland,  overland,  fly! 

Upward  and  upward,  ride! 
Cry  from  the  rock  to  the  crystal  sky, 

High  on  the  Great  Divide! 
Down,  circling  down,  turn  the  racketing  brake 

By  the  rainbow-striped  desert's  gleam — 
Whinnying  pony,  wash  dry  and  stony, 

Moqui's  and  Navajo's  dream. 
Past,  as  the  yesterday's  daybreak  rack 

The  silver  scarred  cave-cliff's  bar. 
Heliotrope,  heliotrope,  folded  back 

Mesa-land  dips  afar. 


52         THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Down  to  the  sea  spreads  the  clear  plaided  green 
Of  the  reservoir's  cloak  unfurled — 

Oh!  why  should  a  myriad  lives  be  mean 
In  such  a  magnificent  world? 

The   nerves   of   my   country's   wide   work   and 
way 

And  the  nerves  of  her  life  are  steel. 
They  can  pulse.    They  can  move.    In  another's 
day, 

At  last  they  will  know  and  feel. 
From  a  shore  unknown  to  an  unknown  shore — 

Our  journey  is  over  and  done. 
Gold  pours  the  light  on  the  ocean's  floor. 

Hark  to  the  sunset  gun ! 
For  our  gods,  and  their  human  sacrifice, 

Will  flash  like  the  Aztec's  dream 
Past  by  the  path  of  the  thing  that  flies 

On  with  a  nameless  gleam. 


OVERLAND  53 

Overland,  overland,  swings  the  rail, 

Riding  from  sea  to  sea. 
The  stars  sink  down  past  the  dwindled  town 

And  pale  through  the  flying  tree. 
The  daystars  sink,  and  tomorrow's  brink 

Brims  through  the  cinders'  flail. 
Overland,  overland,  sings  the  sun! 

Overland  throbs  the  rail! 


HESPERUS 

THE  Vesper  star  that  quivers  there, 
A  wonder  in  the  darkening  air, 
Still  holds  me  longing  for  the  height 
And  splendor  of  the  full  of  night. 

Come,  quiet  night.    The  day's  blue  bars 
Have  dropped  and  let  out  all  the  stars 
To  flock  through  heaven  till  the  light. 
The  day  is  done.     Come,  quiet  night. 

Come,  quiet  night.     My  day  is  done — 
My  little  day  of  work  and  fun; 
I'm  tired.     Hold  me  close  and  light 
In  your  wide  silence,  quiet  night. 
54 


HESPERUS  55 

So,  when  I  see  day's  last  blue  spark, 
My  prides,  my  shames,  my  work,  grow  dark, 
And  still  is  all  life's  wrong  and  right, 
Deep  may  I  know  the  perfect  night. 


A  WAYSIDE  FIRE 

THE  day  was  cold  along  the  road ;  and  heart  and 

foot  did  tire. 
We  stopped  a  while.     We  loosed  the  load,  and 

built  a  wayside  fire. 
Hot  soup  we  had,  and  cheese  and  bread — a  bit  to 

sup  and  eat. 
Sing,  blue  flame,  blue!     Sing,  red  flame,  red! 

The  juniper  burned  sweet. 
And  always,  always,  always  hence,  when  fainting 

spirits  tire, 
I  wish  that  we  would  have  the  sense  to  stop  and 

light  a  fire. 
Along  the  road,  along  the  road,  down  pours  the 

glancing  rain, 
But  easily  I  lift  my  load,  now  I  am  warm  again, 


A     WAYSIDE     FIRE  57 

For  I  have  heard  inside  the  fire  the  song  the  wild- 
bird  knows, 
And  watched  dry  sticks  from  brake  and  byre 

bloom  in  a  golden  rose — 
Flame  in  a  fragrant,  golden  rose,  a  crimson  light, 

a  praise. 
Stream,  happy  fires,  and  smoking  snows,  and  sing 

me  all  your  blaze! 
"Flame  in  a  praise?     What  praise?"  you  say. 

The  dark  will  come,  you  know, 
Along  the  road,  along  the  road,  where  you  and 

I  shall  go — 
Hard  frost  and  rust,  dank  heat  and  must,  dead 

sticks  and  winds  that  tire. 
Then,  let  us  light  by  all  this  dust,  the  splendors 

we  admire! 
And  hear  the  airs  that  course  great  hearts,  and 

talk  of  islands  far, 


5^         THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Of  glory,  comfort,  richest  arts,  and  those  best 

things  we  are! 
Along  the  road,  along  the  road,  down  pours  the 

glancing  rain, 

But  easily  I  lift  my  load,  now  I  am  warm  again. 
For  I  have  heard  inside  the  fire,  the  song  the 

wildbird  knows, 
And  watched  dry  sticks   from  brake  and  byre 

blaze  in  a  golden  rose. 


A  TWILIGHT  TALE 

THE  little  winds  of  twilight 

Ran  down  their  silver  hill. 
"Come  home,"  they  said,  "my  darling. 

The  night  is  fresh  and  still — 
So  still,"  they  said,  "my  darling, 

Those  distant  calls  are  clear 
That  in  the  clanging  day-time 

Were  far  and  dim  to  hear." 
My   yellow-wimpling   day-time 

Had  passed  me  fast  and  free 
With  sparkled  bells  and  play-time 

And  cryings  from  the  sea. 
With  haste  and  waste  and  worrying 

And  working  in  the  sun, 
I'd  hardly  harked,  for  hurrying, 

Before  my  day  was  done. 
59 


THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

"For  you  we've  lit  the  fire,  dear, 

Of  peaty  earth  and  dew. 
With  quicker  hands  than  hire,  dear, 

We've  swept  the  hearth  for  you. 
For  you  we've  spread  the  supper-cloth, 

Refresh  and  rest  you  deep. 

Creation  is  your  home,  dear, 

For  work  and  play  and  sleep." 

The  crystal  air  of  happiness 

Flew  where  their  voices  cried — 

The  winds  that  slipped  their  hands  in  mine, 
Swift  running  by  my  side. 

"Oh,  think  no  more  of  bad  and  good ! 

The  broad-spread  night  is  blue. 
Our  souls  are  brook-springs  through  the  wood. 

Our  step  is  dark-lit  dew: 
And  dust  that  makes  the  prairie: 

And  dust  that  makes  the  stars, 


A     TWILIGHT     TALE  6l 

And  makes  your  soul  we  whisper  to 

By  night- fall's  gray-dropped  bars. 
Creation  is  your  home,  dear: 

The  seacoast's  salt-chased  dark: 
The  fragrant  grass  and  loam,  dear; 

And  all  the  tides  that  hark; 
The  city  spires,  the  city  heights ; 

Black  earth  and  fire  and  foam ; 
The  silent  hillside's  scattered  lights — » 

Creation  is  your  home." 

Oh  happiness — oh  happiness, 

You  ran  so  far  away, 
I  thought  your  tune  had  passed  my  heart 

With  sunset  and  the  day — 
The  yellow-wimpled  daytime 

That  ran  so  fast  and  free, 
With  sparkled  bells  and  play-time, 

And  cryings  from  the  sea, 


62          THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

With  pain  and  stain  and  worrying 

And  working  in  the  sun. 
But  now   I  know  that  happiness 

Speaks  when  the  day  is  done : 
And  still  and  deep,  by  plain  and  steep, 

By  city  wall  and  dome 
The  sister  winds  of  twilight  sing 

"Creation  is  your  home — 
For  work  and  play  and  sleep,"  they  sing 

Along  their  silver  hill. 
"Come  home,"  they  call,  "my  darling. 

The  night  is  fresh  and  still. 
So  still,"  they  say,  "my  darling, 

Those  distant  calls  are  clear, 
That  in  the  clanging  day-time 

Were  far  and  dim  to  hear. 
Oh,  think  no  more  of  bad  and  good ! 

The  broad-spread  night  is  blue. 


A     TWILIGHT     TALE  63 

Our  souls  are  brook-springs  through  the  wood. 

Our  step  is  clear-touched  dew : 
And  dust  that  makes  the  prairie : 

And  dust  that  makes  the  stars, 
And  makes  your  soul  we  whisper  to, 

By  night-fall's  gray-dropped  bars." 


APRIL  WEATHER 

IF  you  could  have  a  perfect  day 

To  dream  of  when  your  life  were  done, 
Would  you  choose  one  all  clear,  all  gay, 

If  you  could  have  a  perfect  day — 
The  airs  above  the  wide  green  way 

Sheer  virgin  blue  with  crystal  sun, 
If  you  could  have  a  perfect  day 

To  dream  of  when  your  life  were  done? 

Or  would  you  have  it  April's  way 
Haphazard  rain,  haphazard  sun, 

Divine  and  sordid,  clear  and  gray, 

Dyed  like  these  hours'  own  craft  and  play, 

All  shot  with  stains  of  tears  and  clay, 
Haphazard  pain,  haphazard  fun — 

If  you  could  have  a  perfect  day 

To  dream  of  when  your  life  were  done? 
64 


TO  F.  W. 

You  are  my  companion, 
Down  the  silver  road, 
Still  and  many-changing, 
Infinitely  changing, 
You  are  my  companion. 

Something  sings  in  lives — 
Days  of  walking  on  and  on- 
Deep  beyond  all  singing, 
Wonderful  past  singing. 

Wonderful  our  road, 
Long  and  many-changing, 
Infinitely  changing. 
This,  more  wonderful — 
65 


66          THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

We  are  here  together, 
You  and  I  together, 
I  am  your  companion. 
You  are  my  companion, 
My  own,  true  companion. 

Let  the  roadside  fade — 
Morning  on  the  mountain-top 
Hours  along  the  valley, 
Days  of   walking  on  and  on 
Pulse  away  in  silence, 
In  eternal  silence. 
Let  the  world  all  fade 
Break  and  pass  away. 
Yet  will  this  remain, 
Deep  beyond  all  singing, 
My  own  true  companion, 
Beautiful  past  singing. 


TO     F.     W.  67 

We  were  here  together — 
On  this  earth  together. 
I  was  your  companion. 
You  were  -my  companion, 
My  own  true  companion, 


NOVEMBER  IN  THE  CITY 


TONIGHT  the  rain  blows  down  from  misty  places 
Above  the  roof-tops  where  the  pigeons  fly: 
And  quick  the  steps;  intent,  the  city's  faces 
That  say  that  we  must  hurry — you  and  I. 
Oh,  why  ?    So  much  speeds  through  this  twilight 

rain-time, 

That's  not  worth  keeping  up  with.    By-and-by 
We'll  wonder  why  we  always  knew  the  train- 
time, 
And  yet  knew  not  November — you  and  I. 

II 

In  quiet  let  us  hark.    Not  till  we  listen 

Shall  any  song  arise  for  you  and  me ; 
68 


NOVEMBER     IN     THE     CITY          69 

Nor  ever  this  broad-stippling  music  glisten 

Twice-told  at  twilight  down  the  city  sea. 

The  fog-horns  call.  The  lake-winds  rush.  Just 
lately 

I  watched  the  city  lights  bloom  star  on  star 

Along  the  streets :  and  terrace-spaced  and  stately 

Touch  moated  height  and  coronet  afar. 

November's  winds  blow  towards  the  garnered 
grain-land. 

Blue-buoyed  all  the  shepherd  whistles  bay: 

And  flocking  down  Chicago's  dusk-barred  main 
land 

The  steam  and  fog-fleeced  mists  run,  buff  and 
gray. 

Silence  and  sound.  Wide  echoes.  Rain-dropped 
spaces. 

Deep-rumbling  dray  and  dipping  trolley  car. 

Steps  multitudinous  and  countless  faces. 

Along  the  cloudy  street,  lit  star  on  star. 


7°         THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 
III 

Oh,  had  you  thought  that  only  woods  and  oceans 
Were  meant  to  speak  the  truth  to  you  and  me — 
That  only  tides'  and  stars'  immortal  motions 
Said  we  are  part  of  all  eternity? 
The  rains  that  fall  and  fly  in  silver  tangent, 
The  passing  steps,  the  fogs  that  die  and  live, 
These  chords  that  pale  and  darken,  hushed  and 

plangent 

Sing  proud  the  praise  of  splendors  fugitive. 
For    fleet-pulsed   mists,    and   mortal    steps    and 

faces 
More   move   me   than   the   tides   that  know   no 

years — 

And  music  blown  from  rain-swept  human  places 
More   stirs   me  than  the   stars   untouched  with 

tears. 
I  think  that  such  a  night  as  this  has  never 


NOVEMBER     IN     THE     CITY          71 

Sung  argent  here  before:  and  not  again 
With  all  these  tall-roofed  intervals  that  sever 
These  streets  and  corners,  etched  with  lamp-lit 

rain 

Tell  just  this  cool-thrilled  tale  of  Midland  spaces 
And  lake-born  mists,  that  black-lined  building's 

prow 

That  cuts  the  steam,  this  dream  in  peopled  places 
That  sings  its  deep-breathed  beauty  here  and 

now. 

IV 

November  winds  wing  towards  the  garnered 
grain-land. 

The  city  lights  have  risen.    Proud  and  free, 

Far  music  swinging  down  the  dusk-barred  main 
land 

Cries  we  are  part  of  all  eternity. 

Let  tne  remember,  let  me  rise  and  sing  it ! 


7  2          THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

For  others  may  the  mountains  be  the  sign, 
Sun,  stars,  the  wooded  earth,  the  seas  that  ring  it, 
Of  melody  immortal.     Here  is  mine. 
This  night  when  rain  blows  down  through  Mid 
land  spaces 
And  lake-born  mists.     A  black-lined  building's 

prow 

That  cuts  the  steam.    A  dream  in  peopled  places 
That  sings  its  deep-breathed  beauty  here  and 
now. 


AN  APRIL  QUEST 

OH,  once  I  heard  an  April  wind 
On  hill-top,  plain  and  lea, 

"Drop  all  that  ties  your  foot,  behind; 
And  follow,  follow  me." 

"I  breathe  the  breath  of  vanished  snows. 

The  combing  clouds  I  ride. 
In  wild-flower  woods  my  spirit  blows. 

Oh,  follow  swift  beside." 
By  flood-lapped  bluff  and  dipping  boom 

I  walked  the  highland  plain: 
And  fresh  arose  the  earth's  perfume 

And  cool  dropped  down  the  rain. 

And  happy,  happy,  happy,  I 

Beyond  my  thought  or  guess 
73 


74          THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Who  chased  beneath  the  changing  sky 
My  unfound  happiness. 

For  veiled  and  far  the  early  star: 

And  scattered  far  and  pale 
Hepatica  and  dogtooth  are 

On  April  shore  and  trail. 

By  black-turned  loam,  by  white  flocked  foam, 
Where  winds  and  water  streamed, 

I  never  found  to  carry  home 

The  very  flowers  I  dreamed. 

More,  more  than  what  I  missed  or  found, 

The  open-vaulted  day, 
The  river  chords,  the  fragrant  ground, 

The  wind's  wide  voice  and  way — 

"Oh,  follow,  follow,  follow  me 
My  pulses  run  and  leap 


AN"     APRIL     QUEST  75 

By  valley,  plain  a\nd  up -land  lea 
By  foam-lapped  bluff  and  steep. 

"I  breathe  the  breath  of  vanished  snows 

Of  wild  rose  sprays  unborn 
Through  cloud-racks  cool  my  foot-step  goes 

Where  high-swung  mists  are  torn!' 

Down  April  roads,  the  rain-dropped  wind 
Ran  coursing  fresh  and  free. 

"Oh,  reck  not  what  you  lose  or  find. 
But  follow,  follow  me." 


ON  THE  SHORE 

GRAY  the  day  and  airy. 

Rain  clouds  swing  and  climb. 
Tarry,  spirit,  tarry: 

Tarry,  tarry,  time. 
Light  your  footsteps  fall  for  me 

Walking  on  the  shore. 
Cool  and  still  you  call  to  me, 

Call  me  evermore. 
Toward  the  morning,  toward  the  main, 

Toward  Saint  Lawrence  Bay, 
Toward  the  daybreak's  silver  wain 

Dips  the  water's  way. 
Tree-top,  tree-top,  in  the  wind, 

Flag-flower,  swamp,  and  brakes, 
Rapids  fleet  as  hart  and  hind, 
76 


ONTHESHORE  77 

Linked  and  dappling  lakes, 
Dune  and  mist  and  rain-touched  lea — 

Spirit  on  the  shore, 
Cool  and  still  you  call  to  me, 

Call  me  evermore. 
All  the  world's  my  halidome, 

At  your  step  divine, 
All  the  earth  mine  own  free  home, 

Winds  and  waters  mine. 
Mine  the  misty  morning, 

Sun-cloud,  hail,  and  rime. 
Tarry,  spirit,  tarry: 

Tarry,  tarry,  time. 
Mine  to  see  the  poplar  quiver 

In  the  ether's  sweep; 
Mine  to  hark  to  lake  and  river 

Buoyed  toward  the  deep. 
Mine  Arcturus  airy 

In  his  starry  prime. 


THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 
Tarry,  spirit,  tarry: 
Tarry,  tarry  time. 
Mine  to  walk  in  glory 

Down  the  night  and  day, 
Walk  past  breath,  past  life,  past  death, 

Down  creation's  way. 
Would  that  through  my  lesser  hours 

Full  your  cry  would  carry. 
Tarry,  tarry,  time  for  me: 

Tarry,  spirit,  tarry. 
In  your  voice  I'd  fain  rejoice 

Deeply   evermore, 
Walking  through  my  life  divine, 
Walking  on  the  shore. 


AN  ARIZONA  WIND! 

THE  canyon  wind  blows  high  and  low, 

Her  voice  calls  fresh  and  deep. 
From  mesa,  bluff  and  blue  plateau 

Her  pine-brushed  currents  sweep, 
Down  turquoise  ledge  and  valley 

And  thousand-terraced  height 
Past  opal  drop  and  alley 

And  fawn- veiled  stairs  of  light. 

Of  sheep-land,  and  of  cattle-land 
She  whispers  still  and  swift. 

Her  flight  has  fanned  the  painted  sand 
Green  spur  and  lilac  drift, 

Leapt  river-bed  and  rapid-head 
Down  tawny  crags  and  buff, 
79 


80         THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Paced  caverned  gulches  dark  and  red 
And  hundred-portaled  bluff. 

Her  touch  stirred  pine  and  pinon  ways 

Before  the  foot  of  man. 
In  Navajo  dominion  days 

Through  peopled  cliffs  she  ran. 
As  soon  as  star  and  shadow  sped, 

Before  the  first  green  tree, 
Before  the  Colorado  fled, 

Her  soul  turned  towards  the  sea. 

Oh,  manifold  and  manifold 

The  canyon  drops  away: 
And  far  the  desert  shimmers  old 

As  night,  and  young  as  day: 
And  wide  and  free  your  music  plays, 

So  dumb,  so  fully  heard, 
Like  ocean  tides  and  human  ways 

That  speak  without  a  word. 


AN     ARIZONA     WIND  8l 

What  are  you  many-chording  wind 

And  what  is  it  you  say, 
As  light  as  life,  as  light  as  death, 

Across  the  vibrant  day? 
So  high  you  blow,  so  low  you  blow — 

And  yet  so  close  and  deep, 
I  hardly  know  from  my  own  breath 

The  hushing  air  you  keep. 

I  hardly  know  from  my  own  breath 

Your  breath  of  sage  and  pine. 
My  fault,  my  force,  my  dream,  my  death 

Throb  in  your  life  divine — 
Divine  as  desert  dust,  the  rock 

In  sapphire  depths  below 
The  vanished  cliffman  and  the  flock 

Far  on  the  blue  plateau. 


THE  FROST  ON  THE  PANE 

UPON  my  glass  at  daybreak 
Breathe  star-built  bluff 
and  byre 

And  fir  and  fern  and  forest 
Of  incandescent  fire. 

Compelling  cloud  and  mistral, 
That  changed  the  air  afar, 

Locked  close  that  lea  of  crystal 
And  wrought  its  every  star. 

What  fused  ten  million  crystals 

In  just  that  bluff  and  lea, 
Fates  far  as  clouds  and  mistrals, 

Made  what  I  am  of  me. 
82 


THE     FROST     ON     THE     PANE         83 

Gone  fir  and  frond  and  forest 
And  vanished  blue  and  byre 

When  through  my  glass  at  noon 
day 
I  see  the  sky's  blue  fire. 

And  light  and  still  I  wonder 

To  think  of  time  when  I 
Shall  be  as  ether  under 

The  splendor  of  the  sky. 


THE  GYPSY  ROSE 

IN  deep  black  loam,  and  sward  serene 

Inside  a  watered  close, 
In  crimson  airs  and  leafage  green 

There  bloomed  a  garden  rose. 

"Come,  love,"  I  heard  her  sing  and  say, 
Inside  her  garden  wall — 

"Or  I  may  live  my  life  away, 
And  not  be  loved  at  all." 

Green  winds  and  waters  threw  on  her 

Their  joy  for  long  and  long 
A  week  and  more  they  blew  on  her 

Their  peace,  and  heard  her  song. 
84 


THE     GYPSY     ROSE  85 

A  breath  beyond  the  garden  spray, 

Outside  the  garden  close, 
High,  on  the  roadside's  chance  estray 

There  soared  a  pale  wild  rose. 

"Oh,  let  me  fling  my  fragrance  far, 

And  let  me  live  and  sing 
For  clovered  mist  and  common  star, 

And  every  passing  thing — 
This  traveled  way,  the  dust,  the  dray, 

The  barbed  and  stone-piled  wall — 
Or  else  I  might  have  died  today 

And  not  have  loved  at  all." 


My  whole  heart  filled :  my  pulses  thrilled 
Quick,  as  her  singing  sped. 

But  when,  next  day,  I  went  her  way, 
The  roadside  rose  was  dead. 


86 


THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

My  garden's  green  is  ash  and  mold. 

My  garden  rose  is  gray; 
Her  crimson  song  forgot  and  cold ; 

Her  fragrance,  blown  away. 

But  singing  flushed  through  frost  and 
must, 

And  soaring  through  the  snows, 
Above  all  winds'  and  fortunes'  dust, 

I  hear  the  roadside  rose. 


TO  A  CITY  SWALLOW 

Over  the  height  of  the  house-top  sea,  silver  and 

blue  and  gray, 
'A  swallow  Hies,  in  my  city  skies,  and  cries  of  my 

city  May. 

UP  from  the  South,  swallow,  fly  to  the  North, 
over  the  roof-top  miles, 

The  pillaring  stacks,  and  the  steam-cloud  racks, 
and  the  telegraph's  argent  files, 

Rich  man's  and  poor  man's  and  beggarman's 
town,  odors  of  pine  and  pitch, 

Marbles  and  chalk  on  the  hop-scotch  walk,  and 
racketing  rail  and  switch, 

Over  a  thousand  close-housed  streets  with  a  mil 
lion  steps  arow, 

87 


THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Where  the  nurses  walk  and  the  children  talk  and 

the  light-gowned  women  go — 
Dock-roof,  and  dive-roof,  and  prison-house-roof, 

pebbled  and  buff  and  brown. 
Cry  me  the  manifold  souls'  abodes,  and  the  roads 

of  my  trading  town. 
For  more  to  me  is  my  house-top  sea,  whefc  your 

hooked  wings  fall  and  soar, 
Than  all  of  the  echoes  you  trail  for  me  of  your 

Spring  on  a  woodland  shore. 
Oh,  care-free,  you  flew  to  the  crocused  North, 

when  the  breath  of  the  first  Spring  woke, 
And  not  of  the  ways  of  the  jasmine  far,  but  the 

hours  that  are,  you  spoke ; 
And,  free,  as  you  flew  to  the  melting  North,  a 

myriad  Springs  ago, 
A  myriad  more,  and  a  myriad  more  will  buoy 

you  swift  from  the  snow, 


TO     A     CITY     SWALLOW  9 

To  cry  of  the  stir  of  the  hours  that  are,  as  you 

cry  through  my  day  to  me — 
Through  the  amethyst  of  the  bright-whirled  mist, 

over  a  roof-top  sea, 
Where  some  window  will  open,  afar,  afar,  and 

some  woman  look  out  and  say, 
"A  szvallow  Hies  in  my  city  skies  and  cries  of 

my  city  May" 


THE  CLOVER 

THE  clover's  grassy  breath 
To  him  who  listeneth 

Upon  the  pastured  lea, 
Is  like  the  monotone 
Of  some  far  sheep-bell,  blown 

From  tranquil  Arcady. 

The  airs  of  that  last  rose 
That  late  and  crimson  blows 

And  frosted  dies, 
Smell,  as  in  green  and  dew, 
The  first,  first  rose  that  blew 

In  waking  Paradise. 

What  fragrance,  ages  hence 
Shall  tell  the  listening  sense 

Of  men  who  guess — 
90 


THECLOVER  91 

Men  whose  far  lives  shall  range 
On  paths  remote  and  strange — - 
Our  happiness? 


HURON 

OH,  perfect  beauty,  grave  and  deep, 
And  pulsing  in  the  sapphire  sky, 

Except  in  full-whelmed  hours  of  sleep, 
Where  else  in  living  do  you  lie? 

Where  else  but  in  far  tarns  of  sleep, 
Blue  fire  of  beauty,  proud  and  deep? 

From  crystal  keeps  and  bed-rock  springs 

Cerulean  the  waters  blow 
Where  purple-furling  Huron  flings 

Past  island  pines  her  folds  of  snow : 
And  proud  and  deep  the  welling  foam 

Breathes  cool  the  breath  of  my  still  home. 

The  breath  of  my  immortal  home, 

Of  perfect  beauty  here  for  me, 
92 


HURON  93 

Beyond  the  questing  rivers'  foam, 
Beyond  the  surging  of  the  sea — 

Sheer,  silent  beauty  proud  and  deep, 
As  pulsing  skies  and  perfect  sleep. 


THE  AUGUST  SKY 

SPARKLING  in  splendor,  the  Kite  and  the  Dipper 
Crossed  the  black  welkin,  and  Scorpio's  star 

Lit  on  the  runway  stag,  herdsman  and  skipper, 
When  I  was  dust,  perhaps,  bed-rock  or  spar. 

Dust,  fire,  or  dew,  or  the  wind  of  the  morning, 
Foam  of  some  seacoast  unknown,  on  the  deep, 

Somewhere  I  lived  in  creation's  adorning, 
Still,  on  the  nights  when  Joan  walked  with  her 
sheep. 

What  was  I  dreaming  and  where  did  I  wander, 
All  through  the  Augusts  before  I  could  know? 

Crystal  the  Archer  swept  high  over  yonder : 
Close  to  the  zenith  burned  Vega's  blue  snow. 
.94 


THEAUGUSTSKY  95 

Glory  on  glory  the  night's  coronation 
Circled  the  heavens  before  I  was  born — 

Shone  while  I  slept  in  the  soul  of  creation 
Somewhere  when  Ruth  wept  for  home  in  the 
corn. 

Glory  on  glory  the  night's  coronation 

Throbbed  in  a  beauty  past  dream  and  desire, 

Proud  as  I  slept  in  the  soul  of  creation, 
Breath  of  the  morning  or  bed-rock  or  fire. 


LAKE  WINDS 

KEEN,  fleet  and  cool,  on  your  silver-breathed  way, 
Whirling  the  cirrus-cloud,  brushing  the  mire, 

Far  down  the  roads  of  the  night  and  the  day, 
Sing  me  the  name  of  my  proudest  desire. 

Midland  wind,  inland  wind,  buoying  low, 
Flying  on  Michigan's  gray-dappled  deep, 

Swing  me  the  strength  and   the   splendor  you 

know 
Once,  ere  the  hour  of  my  infinite  sleep. 

Fling  them  but  once  to  me — once  let  me  go 
Straight  to  some  goal  through  all  mist  or  all 

mire, 
Knowing  no  thought  but  to  live,  as  you  blow, 

Free  in  the  name  of  my  proudest  desire. 
96 


FOREST  FIRE 

DEEP  my  dreaming,  fresh  my  waking 

Furled  in  fragrant  leaf  and  mold, 
When  the  brumal  mists  are  quaking 

In  the  crimson-kindling  cold. 
In  the  scraggy  copse  I  smolder, 

Swarthy  brush  and  red-tipped  thorn, 
In  the  dank-edged  leaves  I  molder, 

Switch  the  shock  and  light  the  corn. 
On  the  yellow-rippling  river, 

By  the  wood-pool's  reeded  edge, 
Fleet  my  dappling  shadows  quiver 

Over  auburn  brake  and  sedge. 
By  the  lake  and  sandy  shallow 

Where  the  lonely  trees  aspire, 
And  the  shingled  shores  reach  sallow 
97 


9s         THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Fiercely  burns  my  tawny  fire — 
Lights  the  poplar  solitary 

Proud  upon  her  windy  dune 
On  a  shore  afar  and  faery — 

Misted  foam  and  calling  loon. 
Scarlet,  fawn  and  gold  my  gleaming, 

Full  my  music  wide  and  still. 
Through  September  smoke  far-streaming 

Fast  I  run  down  road  and  hill, 
Crying  "Follow,  follow,   follow!" 

Tipping  tree-tops  tan  and  black, 
Singing  with  the  Southward  swallow 

As  I  flick  the  tamarack. 
Free  I  blaze  down  mapled  mountains, 

Course  the  earth's  veins  black  and  deep, 
Spray  the  birches'  golden  fountains, 

Richly  fleece  ridge,  bluff  and  steep. 
Swift  by  wide-spaced  slopes  and  regal 

Swings  my  spark's  far-flying  flail, 


FOREST     FIRE  99 

Flying  high  as  hawk  and  eagle, 

Low  as  runs  the  freckled  quail. 
Hop-vine,  oak-vine,  wood-bine  sweeping, 

Trail  and  road-side  bronze  and  brown; 
Wide  my  leaping,  close  my  reaping, 

Door-yard,  eaves,  and  country-town. 
Brown  and  red  and  bronze  my  gleaming 

Full  my  music  broad  and  fleet, 
Through  October  clouds  full-creaming 

Down  the  mist-smoked  city  street — 
Crying,  "Follow,   follow,   follow!" 

Where  the  straight-spaced  tree-tops  plume 
Singing  with  the  Southward  swallow, 

And  the  brown  leaves'  rustled  flume. 
Vine-hung  lintel,  porch-pale,  alley 

Square  and  scattered  streak  of  grass, 
Cities  of  the  plain  and  valley 

Smoke  and  mantle  as  I  pass, 
Crying  "Follow,  follow,  follow!" 


100       THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Over  tree-top,  mire  and  moor, 
Singing  with  the  Southward  swallow, 

In  the  tide  of  my  glamour. 
One  to  me  are  shrine  and  alley, 

Sacred  grove  and  eaves  of  shame, 
Mire-edged  road  and  soaring  valley 

In  my  splendor's  common  flame — 
Common,  common,  like  the  glory 

Of  the  proud-piled  Autumn  skies 
Where  the  rich  winds  blow  their  story, 

"Every  soul  is  born  and  dies!" 
Deep  my  flame  sings  "Follow,  follow !" 

Down  the  splendor  of  my  way, 
Flying  with  the  Southward  swallow 

Through  the  great  year's  passing  day, 
Through  October,  through  September, 

Till  at  last  my  burning  breath 
Throbs  to  silence  in  December — 

In  the  speechless  snow  of  Death. 


NIGHTFALL  IN  ARIZONA 

BLACK  blows  the  cottonwood.    Coolness  abiding 
Thrills  in  the  air  with  the  snow  of  the  stars. 

Navajo,  Navajo,  where  are  you  riding? 

Clear  breathes  the  night  on  the  plains'  opal 
bars. 

Long  past  the  desert,  the  creek  dry  and  stony, 
Fleet  on  your  trail  towards  the  mountains' 
dark  rim, 

Far,  far  away  cries  your  whinnying  pony 
High  on  the  mesa's  empurpling  brim. 

Distant  tonight  are  my  tribe  and  her  cities, 

Turbine  and  factory,  engine  and  wheel, 
Prides  and  disgraces  and  honors  and  pities, 

Stone  wall  and  brick  wall  and  riveted  steel. 
101 


102       THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Here  where  your  f  ocks  and  your  cattle  are  rang 
ing, 

Hogan  and  wickieup  stand  in  the  swale 
Blanket  and  basket  are  trade  and  exchanging, 

Traveler,  tell  me  the  end  of  your  trail. 

Free  through  the  cool  star-lit  silences  blowing 
Throbs  the  swift  night  on  your  way's  darkened 
blue. 

Navajo,  Navajo,  where  are  you  going? 
Where  your  long  trail  ends  mine  will  end  too. 


A  MIDLAND  TWILIGHT 

THE  cloud-plumed  afternoon  has  flown  along  the 

household  street. 
Leaf  shadows  flicker.    Freshly  strown  the  sprays 

whir.    Far  and  fleet 
Hushed,  furtive  footsteps  dodge  and  creep  and 

hunting  voices  call 
"I  spy,"  and  "One,  Two,  Three  for  you,"  around 

the  street's  still  hall. 
The  little  winds  of  twilight  blow.     Upon  the 

hop-scotch  chalk 
Home-turning  footsteps  come  and  go  along  the 

dappled  walk. 
The  little  winds  of  twilight  blow  closed  flower 

and  full-stirred  tree, 

103 


J04       THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

And   far  and  near  a  singing  voice  cries  "All 
Sorts  Out,  In  Free!" 

The   cloud-plumed   afternoon    has   flown   slow- 
winging  green  and  bright 
And  all  the  dreams  her  hours  have  known  turn 

with  her  towards  the  night, 
The  spacious  night  that  quivers   far  in  silver 

keeps  and  gray 
Beyond  that  first  cool  snowdrop  star  above  the 

roof -rimmed  way. 
Home   and  the   night — profound    for   me,   and 

happy  their  wide  grace 
Thrills  through  the  wind,  the  full-stirred  tree, 

fleet  game  and  white-starred  space. 
Deep  by  their  ways  may  my  soul  live  as  by  her 

halidome, 
Through  all  her  cloud-plumed  day-time  hours: 

and  when  to  my  great  home, 


A     MIDLAND     TWILIGHT  105 

Home  and  the  night  at  last  I  come,  so  may  it 

be  for  me — 
Peace.    Through  my  heart  a  fresh  voice  singing 

"All  Sorts  Out,  In  Free!" 


MARCH  HORSES 

DOWN  the  rainy  roof-top,  up  the  silver  street, 
Horses  of  the  morning  wind  gallop  far  and 

fleet. 

Over  mist  and  tree-top,  down  the  break  of  day. 
Coursers  of  the  cold-breathed  wind  swing  me 
on  your  way. 

Light  you  whinnied  at  the  gabling,  and  afar  I'd 

dreamed  your  stabling — 
Heard  you  stamping  in  your  stabling  on  the 

heaven's  crystal  floor, 

Dreamed  your  waiting  in  the  airy  days  of  ice- 
locked  January, 
Through  clear  nights  in  February,  past  the 

pole-star  lantern's  door. 
106 


MARCH     HORSES  ™7 

Gallop  past  the  hoary  Hyads,  and  the  snowy- 
clustered  Pleiads, 
Over  common,  over  open,  over  mud-flung  road 

and  plain, 
Cloud-winged  horses  with  your  streaming  manes 

and  dappled  fetlocks  gleaming 
Beautiful  beyond  my  dreaming,   down  your 
yearly  course  again. 

Over  highway,  over  byway,  every  way  of  yours 

is  my  way, 
Fog-smoked  roof,  and  dripping  alley,  and  the 

trail  the  wild  duck  cries, 
Ragged    mist    and    splashing    byway,    plashing 

eaves,  and  flooded  highway, 
Broken  shore  and  full-flushed  valley,  and  the 
hundred-hurdled  skies. 

Gallop,  gallop  swifter  to  me,  thrill  the  strength 
of  daybreak  through  me, 


108       THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Twelve  great  winds  of  open  heaven,  in  your 

splendor  fleet  and  free, 

Winds  above  all  pride  and  scorning,  all  self- 
shame  and  self-adorning 
As  the  naked  stars  of  morning  singing  through 
the  bare-branched  tree. 


CITY  WHISTLES 
To  H.  M. 


Now  the  morning  winds  are  rising.     Now  the 

morning  whistles  cry. 

Fast  their  crescent  voices  dim  the  paling  star. 
Through  the  misted  city  mainland,  wide  their 

questing  summons  fly 

Many-toned — "O  mortal,  tell  me  who  you  are !" 
Down  the  midland,   down  the  morning,   fresh 

their  sweeping  voices  buoy : 
"Siren  ship!    Silver  ship!    Sister  ship!    Ahoy! 

Sister  ship  ahoy!    Ship  ahoy! 
What's  the  stuff  of  life  you're  made  from?  What 

the  cargo  you  must  trade  from?" 
109 


110       THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

From  afar  their  onward  voices  break  the  blue, 
Crying,  "Bring  your  gold  or  barley!     Come  to 

barter!    Come  to  parley! 
Ring  the  bell,  and  swing  the  bridge,  and  let  me 

through." 
Like  some  freighted  ship  that  goes,  where  the 

city  river  flows, 
Like  a  trading  ship  that  questions,  "Who  are 

you?" 
In  among  the  river  craft,  as  she  rides  by  stack 

and  shaft 

Through  Chicago  from  Sheboygan  and  the  Soo. 
"What's  the  stuff  of  life  you're  made  from? 

What  the  cargo  you  convoy? 
Ring  the  bell!     Swing  the  bridge!     Sister  ship, 

ahoy!" 

II 

At  last 
The  twilight  rises  fast. 


CITY     WHISTLES  HI 

"Hard  was  our  day." 

The  scaling  whistles  say, 

"Our  jarred  and  jangled  day." 

Then  all  their  clamors  blow, 

"Great  was  our  day!" 

And  sing  a  tale  of  fate  untold  and  fugitive, 

Something  spacious,  something  mordant,  some 
thing  gracious  and  discordant, 

Mean  and  splendid,  something  all  our  lives  here 
live. 

in 

Down  the  midland  mists  at  twilight,  have  you 

heard  their  singing  sweep, 
Where  their   far-toned   voices,   many   chorded, 

buoy — 
And  our  mortal  ways  in  wonder  hail  creation's 

unknown  deep — 
"Siren  ship!     Silver  ship!     Sister  ship,  ahoy!" 


A  CITY  AFTERNOON 

GREEN  afternoon,  serene  and  bright 
Along  my  street  you  sail  away 

Sun-dappled  like  a  ship  of  light 
That  glints  upon  a  wimpled  bay. 

Afar,  freight-engines  call  and  toll: 
The  sprays  flash  on  the  fragrant  grass : 

The  children  and  the  nurses  stroll: 
The  charging  motors  plunge  and  pass. 

Invisibly  the  shadows  grow, 

Empurpling  in  a  rising  tide 
The  walks  where  light-gowned  women  go, 

White  curb,  gray  asphalt  iris-dyed. 

A  jolting  trolley  shrills  afar: 
Nasturtiums  blow  and  ivy  vines: 

112 


A     CITY    AFTERNOON  1*3 

Wet  scents  of  turf  and  black-smoothed  tar 
Float  down  the  roof -trees'  vergent  lines. 

Where  will  you  go,  my  afternoon, 
That  glint  so  still  and  swift  away 

Blue-shaded  like  a  ship  of  light 
Bound  outward  from  a  wimpled  bay? 

Oh,  thrilling,  pulsing,  dark  and  bright, 
Shall  you,  your  work,  your  brain,  your 
mirth, 

Fly  into  the  immortal  night 
And  silence  of  our  mother  earth? 

She  bore  all  Eden's  green  and  dew 
And  Persia's  scented  wine  and  rose, 

And,  flowering  white  against  the  blue, 
Acanthus  leaf  and  marbled  pose. 

And  deep  the  Maenad's  choric  dance, 
Crusader's  cross  and  heathen  crest, 


IJ4       THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Lie  sunk  with  rose  and  song  and  lance 
All  veiled  and  vanished  in  her  breast. 

And  all  their  afternoons  once  danced 
And  sparkled  in  the  sapphire  light, 

And  iris  shade,  as  you  have  glanced 
Green  afternoon,  in  vibrant  flight. 

As  down  dim  vistas  echoing, 

Dead  afternoons  entreat  our  days, 

What  breath  of  beauty  will  you  sing 
To  souls  unseen  and  unknown  ways? 

How  close,  and  how  unanswering, 
Green  afternoon,  you  pulse  away, 

So  little  and  so  great  a  thing, 
Deep  towards  the  bourn  of  every  day. 


CITY  VESPERS 

COME  home,  my  child,  come  home.  The  fogs  are 

falling : 

Along  the  blue-walled  street  the  whistles  calling : 
Along  the  street  ten  thousand  footsteps  falling, 

Through  steam  and  smoke-wreath's  foam. 
Bells  cry  afar:  afar  the  darkness  winging, 
Soars  throbbing  with  the  chimes  and  whistles 

ringing, 
The  breath  of  night,  the  twilight  city,  singing : 

Come  home,  my  child,  come  home. 

Lock   fast  the   locks,   drop  down   the   shutters 

shading, 
From  shop  and  counter,  counting-house  and 

trading, 

"5 


Il6        THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

From  dock-yard,  stock-yard,  derrick,  crane,  and 

lading, 
From  caisson,  clay,  and  loam, 

Come  home,  my  child,  come   home,  in  many- 
chording 

And  rushing  voice,  the  city  sings,  from  hoard 
ing, 

From  spending,  grudging,  judging,  and  record 
ing, 
Come  home,  my  child,  come  home. 

Come    from    disgrace   and    honor,    craft    and 

scheming, 
From  work  and  shirking  come,  from  deed  and 

dreaming, 
Success    and     failure     where     the     lights    are 

streaming 

Azure  and  chrysolite, 
Yellow  and  crystal,  where  the  mists  are  falling, 


CITYVESPERS  "7 

The  yard-bells  ringing,  engine  whistles  calling, 

Along  the  street  ten  thousand  footsteps  falling 

Come  through  the  dark-blown  night. 

Where    tall-piled    height    and    dusky    cornice 

lower 

On  storied  citadel  and  tall-crowned  tower, 
Corner  and  curb  a  million  arc-lights  flower 

Full  in  the  twilight  air. 
If  all  the  foot- falls  spoke  the  destinations 
Of  all  the  dreams  of  all  the  generations 
Upon  their  way,  all  shames,  all  aspirations 

Would  find  their  kindred  there. 

Here  steps  your  fate,  my  child,  your  generation 
That  walks  through  time  to  some  far  consumma 
tion 

Unknown  along  the  blue  street's  destination 
Through  fog  and  smoke-wreath's  foam. 


Il8        THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Here  flies  your  life,  for  worse  or  better  winging 
And  pulsing  with  the  bells  and  whistles  ringing, 
The  heart  of  night,  the  full-thronged  city  singing : 
Come  home,  my  child,  come  home. 


A  CITY  EQUINOCTIAL 

THE  city  mists  lie  dreaming.    From  afar 
Over  the  sea  of  roof-tops  veiled  and  hoar 
And  hung  with  sapphire  lights,  the  brumal  wind, 
The  rains  transpirant  break  the  clouds  to  stream 
On  tenement  and  ware-house,  wharf  and  spire. 

The  buoy-lights  throb.   Fog-horns  bay.  Athwart 
Black  shaft  and  chimney  pillared  in  the  smoke, 
Past  high-splashed  walls,   past  corniced  street, 

swart  alley 

On  crane  and  shack,  the  rain  swings,  beautiful — 
Oh,  beautiful,  thrilled  with  the  brumal  wind, 
Wind  of  the  night,  crying  full,  full  and  deep 
Resurgent  from  afar. 

By  rain-whipped  roads 

By  whistling  tree,  over  the  wheat-fields  bare, 
119 


120       THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

The  broken  cane,  South,  North  and  East  and 

West, 

On  bayou,  swale,  lake,  mountain-top  and  valley 
Runs  the  great  storm:     Tonight,  tonight 
Past  countless  house-walls  down  this  very  street 
Of  my  own  life  it  courses — storm  of  the  gulf 
Storm  of  the  terraced  lakes,  the  ocean  shores 
Reverberant  afar — wind  of  the  world. 

Cry,  cry  again,  great  voice, 

Voice  of  the  hungry  storm, 

Cry  full  and  far  in  beauty.     For  till  now 

I  never  heard  your  cool-spaced,  ragged  chords 

Break  on  the  city  house-tops  so  profoundly — 

Welling  and  coursing  from  undying  springs, 

Pure,  pure  and  deep  from  countless  wells  and 

springs — 

The  tone  of  striving,  the  clear  tone  of  tears 
Inevitable — voice  of  the  surgent  world, 


A     CITY     EQUINOCTIAL  121 

The  speech  of  disappointments  and  desires, 
Voice  of  the  urgent  world,  full,  full  and  deep, 
The  voice  of  mortal  hungers. 

More  responsive, 

Richly  responsive  and  more  beautiful 
To  me  the  rain,  the  wind,  the  night  that  tell 
Over  my  country's  wide-spread  plains  and  towns 
Along  a  thousand  cities'  towers  and  lights, 
The  strength  aspirant  of  the  longing  earth, 
Than  all  the  high  ecstatic  hymns  and  harps 
Of  an  envisioned  heaven.     Till  I  heard 
Fate,  death,  desire  speak  deep  for  all  men,  heard 
From  springs  unknown  the  far,  clear  tone  of 

tears 

Inevitable,  from  unfathomed  keeps, 
I  could  not  know  nor  dream  of  beauty — hark 
To  the  great  broken  music  of  the  world, 
The  hungry  storm. 


122       THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

Cry,  cry  again  quick  voice,  across  this  street, 
My  life- 
Wind   of  the  world,   storm  of  the  world,  my 

world, 

On  unremembering  nights  blow  back,  as  now 
You  cry  down  corniced  street  and  swart-splashed 

alley, 

Over  a  thousand  cities'  spires  and  lights, 
The  singing  prairie  brown-spread,  plain  and  free, 
Up  from  the  Gulf,  up  from  the  ocean  shores, 
Resurgent  from  afar. 


BEHIND  THE  DAY 

BEHIND  the  day  a  thousand  stars,  my  brother, 
Blaze  deeply  through  the  snow  and  sapphire 

sky 
Uncounted  trails  invisible  and  other 

Than  are  the  clear-crowned  ways  of  night  on 
high. 

The   things    unknown — the    things    beyond    all 

knowing — 
Where  first  we  came  from,  where  our  souls 

shall  go, 
Pulse    still,    around    us,    past    the    far   winds' 

blowing, 
Like  day-star  trails  down  heavens'  light  and 

snow. 

123 


124       THE     WIND     IN     THE     CORN 

One  nearer  knowledge,  more  than  any  other 
I  long  for.    Better  than  as  though  the  blue 

Should  speak,  were  this,  through  all  our  world, 

my  brother, 
That  truly  you  knew  me,  and  I  knew  you. 


xo: 


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BERKELEY 


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